The letting go inspiration box

You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.” 
                                                                                                                                ~ Maya Angelou

Thank you Maya Angelou for the literary gems and wisdom you leave behind. You will always be an inspiration.

You were a singer, dancer, prostitute, journalist, activist, poet, literary icon and more. You were a victim of rape, but you never remained a victim. You remained silent for six years, but we are grateful you spoke again – for your words are clarity and beauty. Your indomitable spirit rose above your pain and past and seemed to have metamorphosed it into a thing of beauty that you spread with so much grace.

Your beautiful thoughts and words will live forever.

Caged bird

~ Maya Angelou

 

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom. wind 

and floats downstream

till the current

Of being included, community and loneliness…

As a kid, you sometimes don’t get invited to a party all your friends are going to. And it is just not a good feeling.

As an adult, you think you have it all figured out by now. But not always so, and when it does happens, it is just not a good feeling. As adults, I wonder if we think of it as a sense of community. And maybe it makes us wonder if the community we imagined around a group of friends was never there to begin with. Or if they never thought of us as being part of their community.

Or perhaps we wonder if we matter as much to them as they seem to matter to us. We wonder why we sense a pang of non-belonging, of not mattering, of them not being as accommodating towards us as we would probably have been towards them. Yes, many of us have probably been there… and it’s not a good feeling.

The old me would have shrugged it off and said maybe it was just not meant to be and that I need to be with people with whom I would never have such issues in the first place. But the now me wonders if I am not able to form lasting community due to illness or the person illness has made me.  For illness makes you withdrawn. It keeps you wanting to stay in your shell. It makes you insecure and uncertain of yourself, of how long your energy will last, of when you will begin to fade, of when you will stop having fun, of when you will stop being fun, of when you will no longer be able to connect.

And I wonder if my lack of ability to participate in a community affects my family and that is the part that hurts me the most and that is the only part that makes me want to explore this. For I have a great family, but I suspect we all need a community beyond our family for a sense of well-being.  

I also suspect lack of community can only amount to loneliness and loneliness is a scary thing for many of us. Agreed loneliness and community is different for different people and different cultures. And I would have probably laughed in your face a decade ago if you had even suggested that I would write or dwell on the topic.

Now I am a fairly social person. I talk to strangers all the time; I make friends easily; I generally like people. But building a community and being part of it takes time and energy and consistency and connection and some degree of continuity. And perhaps illness or lack of energy has come in the way of that.  

I am not a sociologist (and a sociologist would probably laugh at the inexpert stream of thought here). Nor do I have any answers. But since community is important (especially since I feel I am in some way affecting my family’s involvement in community), it may worthwhile to pause and figure out what it means to each of us.  

Aristotle to the rescue...

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts

                                                               ~ Aristotle

Exactly what I needed to be reminded of today. Agreed, this will probably be the most simplistic explanation of this synergistic phenomenon so eloquently and scientifically explained by several disciplines of study. But it may be really prove helpful when our human frailties seem to lend us groundless.

For no matter the frailty - lack of optimism or energy or health; diffidence or anger or sadness – these are only parts (and fleeting parts, in that). There is so much more to us that makes us whole and this whole is truly greater than the sum of its parts.

Especially when the parts are fickle and do no good. And yet they seem to pervade our senses and our being and seem like the whole.  For ultimately, these are only parts – small parts in that, and they can never make the whole.

Thank you Aristotle. And now I shall set off on a quest to find another philosopher who will explain how to remember and apply this to my day to day.

Want to be a crime journalist? Part deux.

Continuing with the adventures of two hapless journalism students thrown into the world of crime journalism; with a newspaper and an editor they would had preferred to have never met; startled by the lack of journalism ethics; asked to pursue stories that conflicted with their sense of responsibility and morality and went against everything they had heard in the journalism ethics class.

The editor of the newspaper was quite a character. WE stared at him in disbelief as he recruited us to do a story of crime comparison between two religious groups. Even before gathering data, he knew how the story would read and which religious group had a higher crime statistic. Of course, he needed his two bemused crime reporters to go to different police chowkeys (stations) and gather data in a not-so-scientific manner. (This was a long time ago when there was no central computerized database with such statistics in Mumbai.)  

He was extremely excited; I was sick to my stomach. It violated every ethic and journalistic responsibility we knew and we wondered if this was the reason the previous crime beat journalist had flown the nest of dubious ethics. And how in the world did we get caught up in this mess?

Even if the editor was a hundred percent correct, was it right to publish such volatile stories? Whatever happened to responsible reporting? Could any good come out of this lop-sided story at all? Moreover he seemed to cherry pick police stations and had no plans of balancing or explaining the story through socio-economic and other factors. Funny how I still get so riled up just thinking about it.

We resisted. We busied ourselves with everything else we could do, every story we could cover. We worked like crazy. We worked till late. We did everything we could to keep ourselves away from this crazy project. But with every little gap of open space he noticed, we got sent to some police station to get crime statistics. Again, how in the world did we get caught up in this mess?

The resistance wasn’t working. Letting go seemed wrong, for it seemed like a letting go of personal values. What an awful position for any youth full of idealism to be in. 

But finally, I made an effort to let go of the resistance; but I also had a plan - naïve, idealistic maybe - but a plan nonetheless. I had to let go – for I had to work on the story – but my plan was to cover other dimensions of the story, and bludgeon the editor so many facts and dimensions that his story would no longer be one sided. Indeed, nothing can get in the way of the optimism of youth. 

I spoke to experts about espionage and found evidence conflicting with the editor’s story. I met police chiefs and tried to get information about crime dynamics and religion, and contributing socio-economic factors. I met the Police Commissioner of Mumbai who told me with a wide smile that there was perfect religious harmony in the underworld (!!). I spent many hours in the beautiful colonial period hallways of the Mumbai Police headquarters. I had let go of resistance. I was going to give the editor data from the police stations, but I was going to give him more stories that would hopefully balance out his agenda-piece. In letting go of resistance, I was attempting to redirect with a certain headless optimism of youth.

I am surprised at myself when I think back. I don’t see that kind of grit or headless optimism anymore. The ability to do everything possible and simple let go in the optimism and belief that something good will come out of it. An ability to not be overly attached to the outcome, but stay focused only on that within control. For if it is indeed a kind of letting go, it would be worthwhile to dig deep to see if traces still exist.

 

Want to be a Crime Journalist? Part one.

Continuing with the ‘opposite of Baudelaire’ – looking into a cache of memories that reveal letting go – searching to see if inherent traces still exist…

This memory is adventure filled; though not always positive. It is the time my friend and I became crime journalists in Mumbai (Bombay) – young, green, guileless, with little knowledge of the city, we travelled alone into its dangerous corners – a city so alive, so crazy, so beautiful, so ugly – and for the first time we noticed it’s every avatar. Like any large metropole, Mumbai has corners that are best avoided. Corners that we traipsed into - blithely unaware, clueless and careless.

How did we land into this situation? A very eminent and impressive journalist was guest speaker and introduced us to his “young and vibrant” newspaper that was “making waves” and was “shaking conventional journalism”.  

Star-eyed, star-struck, we believed that we could be part of this dynamic energy changing the face of journalism. And we decided to do an internship with this newspaper in Mumbai. The crime reporter resigned the very day we landed. And of course, who else to fill his shoes than two naïve and clueless journalism students?

We worked from morning till late at night; hopped onto buses and local trains; ventured into areas that folks who had lived in the city all their lives would not dream of going near; wandered into volatile areas of communal strife and disharmony; drove into dusty locales on the photographer’s rickety motorcycle. The heady fervor of youth knows no danger (or maybe the lack of guile doesn’t see danger).

It was a letting go. Letting go of expectations, letting go of thinking ahead, letting go of fear, letting go of (ahem…) wisdom (??) We were given an assignment and we took off – stopping only to figure out the address and mode of public transportation. Little worry, little hesitation, little need to find out if it was a safe part of town. We focused on the story and let go of the rest. We would reconvene in the evening and share our crazy stories. Even if our eyes became wide with disbelief and confusion at all that had transpired, we shook everything off with laughter. Could this be anything else but letting go?  Was it us? Or was it our youth? No matter the situation, we never felt stuck; we simply kept moving or perhaps plodding out of one sticky situation into another. 

If it was a letting go for me, it was many times more for my friend. Her mother had actually travelled with us to Mumbai for she didn’t want her daughter travelling alone (or ahem… with her unreliable friend…sigh). Just glad her poor mother never saw the areas we ventured into.

Now my friend was so lovely that most everyone wanted to go in and rescue her… from whatever…not that she wanted or needed anyone to… So I wasn’t too surprised to hear some friends say to her:  “That was pretty dangerous. What if you had got hurt or kidnapped or something?” I looked indignantly at my friends, “What about me? I could have been hurt or kidnapped too. ” Sigh… Oh well… But I was so proud of her. I was so proud of us. And our friends were proud of us – of both of us.

Perhaps our accomplishment or madness or naiveté’ stemmed out of our letting go. A letting go that I now find hard to believe… A letting go that seemed reckless but freeing … A letting go that knew no limitations, no hurdles… Again, I don’t know if it was letting go or just plain youth… And a part of me hopes it is the former, for the later is long gone… but hints of the former may still exist… and it would be fun to rediscover those traces…Wouldn’t it?
 

The letting go inspiration box...

At some point, we need to stop identifying with our weaknesses and shift our allegiance to our basic goodness. It’s highly beneficial to understand that our limitations are not absolute and monolithic, but relative and removable. The wisdom of buddha nature is available to us at any time.

                                                      ~ Pema Chodron (book title: No Time To Lose)

Letting go memories

I wrote the Baudelaire post yesterday. Apart from having introduced a troubled 19^th century symbolist poet to you (yes, a few friends wrote saying they had checked him and his work out – got to love the Internet!), it got me thinking.

I may be concerned about giving illness an identity of its own. I may be concerned about holding on to a certain gloom and gazing at it quite like Baudelaire. And since I want to do the exact opposite, I thought I would experiment with writing only positive experiences for the rest of the week.

I have a few reservations about this. For none of my blog posts are planned. I never know exactly what I am going to write about; I never know the course of the piece and the turns it may take; I never know whether or not I will post it online. I would never want the blogs to be less genuine in trying to be oh-so-positive. (Ahem… with that attitude, the experiment may be doomed even before it takes off. Sigh…). But it may be a worthwhile experiment.

When I started the blog, a friend I used to go trekking with, wrote to me and suggested I write about fun memories – like the time four of us abandoned a day trek in the Himalayas and spent the day in the middle of nowhere surrounded by pines and the splendor of the mountains.

I gasped that she remembered it so well. For it is a very vivid memory for me – one I will never forget. The fact that she remembered it just as well seemed to validate its magic (as if I needed any validation). And so I sat down to write about it.

Each of us has our cache of magical memories. In a sense, these moments are our letting go. Just as that day was - another day in May - 20 years ago.

Four of us drifted away from the rest of the group, abandoned the day trek mid-way, and simply lolled and laughed in the grass in this spectacularly scenic spot. It may have had something to do with us stopping for breath and never starting back. Oh the joys of failure and incompleteness…

We let go of all drive and determination required to reach the top of a mountain. We let go of all grit and gumption. And in letting go of expectations (set by ourselves and others), we took in the splendor of the Himalayas. Interestingly, of the two weeks spent on the trek, that spot and that day is the most vivid; even if it was not half as exciting or half as thrilling as other days of hiking to treacherous and exciting locations and summits.

In letting go of all goals, we were completely in the moment – and what a beautiful moment it was. I can still feel the crispness of the mountain air, the scent of the pines, the texture of the grass, the warmth of the sun and the laughter of our friendship. We were four very different persons of varying ages and experiences and we connected so beautifully in the moment. Maybe it was simply because we let go of all else; simply because we were all in the moment – and what a beautiful moment it was.

We lay on the grass and discussed everything under the sun, ate our packed lunch meant to be eaten at the mountain summit, reveled in the joy of abandoning the trek, talked incessantly and laughed more endlessly.

We took in the moment in its entirety. And the mountains seemed to approve and the unfinished trek seemed so complete.

Perhaps to someone, convinced of her inability to let go easily anymore, such memories may remind her how easy it is to let go… and the scent of the pines, awe of the mountains and the warmth of the day and laughter can only help.

So, what are your letting go memories?

This is not a picture of the spot, but of the camp site we started from that day. We were about an hour or two of hiking away from this spot – up in the rolling hills in the middle of absolutely and beautifully nowhere.
Will post pictures of the actual location if I can find them…

 

In the hidden shadows of the mind, do there lie… les fleurs du Mal?

I recently picked up Les fleurs du Mal (flowers of Evil) – a book of incredibly beautiful sensual and melancholic poems by 19^th century symbolist, Baudelaire.

I am fairly simplistic to be reading Baudelaire. Apart from the fact that my French is pretty rusty, the content is probably way more intense than I am. It probably always was. But even as a teenager wide-eyed and sufficiently shocked by his words, I had felt their hypnotic effect.  

“Dans ce livre atroce j’ai mis tout mon coeur, toute ma tendresses, toute ma religion, toute ma haine…”
(my tacky translation): In this atrocious book, I’ve poured all my heart, all my tenderness, all my religion, all my hate/hatred…”

Baudelaire seems obsessed by the universal power of unhappiness, and renders it sensual, seductive, powerful, and even noble. To my simplistic mind, it feels like he got stuck in a deep dark cave of unhappiness; started noticing truth and beauty in every little crevice and wrote about it to make the cave a mysterious, magical, yet universal place.

I have to admit, his cave is sheer magic - in a breath-stopping, almost scary, visceral, “are we capable of thinking this?”, “are we capable of feeling this?” to “you got to be kidding me” kind of way. The cave is filled with cobwebs that Baudelaire spins in sheer silk and beauty. But no matter how silken and sensuous and stunning, they are all cobwebs and they are all in a dark cave. And there is a world outside the cave – that is real and sunny and which contains beauty as well.

This is not a book critic of Les fleurs du Mal. I don’t plan to write one. For with or without my rusty French, I am not sure that I am even capable of understanding the complete depth of his words.

I simply want to explore if pain and suffering yield a seductive power? If so, can this power keep you stuck to the suffering? And I want to question if my writing this blog is my succumbing to this power.

When I started the blog, I felt I needed to let go. I felt I had bottled my feelings about being ill and felt tensed and stiffened by it. I was trying to be who I was not, who I could not be, and yet I was surprised so many people were surprised to learn I was ill. “I would have never imagined”, “But you look so well”…  So I decided to face the dragon affront. It has been uncomfortable, it has been totally out of character, but I have continued with the insanity, and blamed it on the insanity.

But I still wonder about this whole experiment. It feels therapeutic. But I wonder if I’m doing a Baudelaire here by giving pain and illness a certain identity. For that is not my goal.

I am comparing neither my life, nor my writing to Baudelaire’s. My life is in certainly not sordidly sad as Baudelaire’s. It is a fairly normal, boring life with a few bumps on the road that have dampened my spirit. As for my writing, I would not even dare utter any words of comparison...

All I want to say is that my objective is not to glorify the sadness (not to say Baudelaire’s was. I would love to know how it worked out for him. If emptying his heart out in those sad, sensuous and vivid lines and imagery, made his heart lighter, or did it keep him further embroiled in suffering).

For I don’t want to stay stuck in suffering. I want to soar, even if I feel somewhat chained. I want to be free despite not being truly free. And I hope this will be that experiment.  

Of shaded hues… and sharp contrasts

My husband and daughter were looking at some old pictures when I overheard, “Really??? Is that  MOM??? No way!" And much squealing thereafter. So I went in to see what photograph was invoking such a response. It was an old picture of me showing some Florida Gator spirit. It had me grinning wide with gator tattoos on either cheek – all set for a football game in the Swamp. My daughter had so much disbelief on her face that I had to join in on the laughter.

I have seen the same disbelief on her face several times – when she sees old pictures of me, when she hears stories – told by me, or by family members. As if trying to piece the puzzle that her mother used to be. And she makes me repeat silly stories that seem like adventures to her, over and over again.

Later that evening, she exclaimed again, “Were you like just a kid?” “Nope. It was just a few years before you were born.” “REALLY? But you were so cool!!” she exclaimed. I laughed though it felt anything but flattering. And with every bit of sass that is still left in me, I replied, “that cool person is still in there somewhere, you know!”

She eyed me thoughtfully, but seemed anything but convinced and I realized that she had never known the old me. The old me that my family and close friends miss so much. Sometimes I wonder if we’re attributing too much to illness, but fact remains that I often see sadness on the faces of family and friends when they see me, when they talk about the old-me. And I feel their pain, and I even feel oddly responsible. But there is little I can do about it. So I choose to let it go. And then I feel sorry for my daughter - that she never got to meet this other person that so many people seem to miss. But there is little that I can do about it. So I choose to let it go.

Maybe they reminisce old stories about this very different person I used to be, in the hope that this person may still be there – somewhere deep within. It is almost fun for me, in an incredulous kind of way. It doesn’t make me particularly sad. For I live with the now-me everyday. But it makes them sad. But there is little that I can do about it. And so I choose to let it go.

But it wasn’t always so. Some years back, an old co-worker sent me an email asking, “Have you got your effervescent life and being back?” I almost wept. For I had shut that effervescent person away – far far away. I saw a sharp contrast in the then and now and it made me sad.

I really don’t want to live life in sharp contrasts anymore. For it is a jarring way to exist. And life seems more pleasant in a continuous hue of shades.

So although I choose to let go of the old me - for memories of the old person will make the now-person lack-luster; I wonder if there may be an essence of being within that may still exist. It may have become something else – but it is all part of my color scheme. And hopefully that color scheme will be one of several hues and not sharp contrasts.

Supermoms... and letting go…

I am no suburban supermom. Yes. I am suburban; and I’m a stay at home. But I’m no supermom. And I made my peace with that some years when I would take my daughter for gymnastics where all supermoms met. Or so it seemed.

I truly admired them and I truly wanted to be just like them. But I knew that I didn’t have the energy or health to be like them.

“Oh you should try the other pool for swim lessons. The water is so much better” (Um…that pool is ten miles away). “We saw a lot of difference once we started Kumon. I recommend it to all parents”. (Um… but I don’t want to send her there). From early education, to social behavior, to sleep habits, to exercise needs, to teeth... no stone seemed to be left unturned. And it overwhelmed me.

Perhaps because this was years ago and I wasn’t quite familiar with the mom-exchange that happens (and that I participate in now). Or perhaps it made me feel like I wasn’t trying hard enough. I was no supermom. In fact I barely had the strength to do the stuff I was doing. And perhaps wanting to do more, but not having the energy to do so, made these conversations painful for me.  

And every week I would see this mom with five kids. Her twins were in my daughters class. She would park herself outside the class helping her eldest child with homework, handing out craft stuff (and involved stuff, not just simple coloring paper and crayons as I would have) to her younger one, whilst nursing the baby and of course handing out healthy snacks (not packaged somethings) as needed. I would gaze in admiration as I sat there doing nothing of much consequence, waiting for only one kid, getting a ‘packaged something’ out of my bag (tsk…tsk…). I realized I could not imagine being her. Sure I used to imagine having a bunch of kids years ago. But I don’t think I can (or ever did) imagine myself being so put together in a super-mom manner.  

Motherhood (parenthood) seems to come with expectations. Expectations that we as mothers set on ourselves. And I suspect many a mom has often felt like they don’t do enough for their kids when they listen to other parents talk. And I wish there was some magic wand to just make that feeling disappear.

For every mother does her very best and wishes only the very best for her child. And there can be no exception. Not even the mother who may be on drugs or alcohol. No matter the outcome, or the relationship (good or bad) between a mother (parent) and child, fact remains that she probably did what she knew best, what she thought best (whether or not the child or the world agrees).

For, in the end, we all know how much we love our kids and that we want only the best for them and that we’re doing the best we can for them.

So then is it possible for us to let go in just that and simply enjoy our time with them? Happy Mother’s Day!

Letting go….to dazzle…

We watched a ballet performance, last night. It was a beautiful show and my daughter and I soaked in the joy of music and movement and magic that any classical art offers.

As I watched the dancers move to the music with fluidity and finesse, but with a certain abandon, I marveled at how uninhibited their movements seemed and how liberated and free they must feel. So in tune with their bodies; so truly inhabiting their bodies; living only in the movement and the moment and the music.  

I remembered a time many many years ago, when I would be on stage, dancing and doing the same. And interestingly, I remembered my dance teacher telling me that I had “stage presence” and that I could turn into a “1000 watt bulb” on stage from a rather ordinary one (ahem…). Now you must understand that my dance teacher was a truly loving person, just very honest and unhesitant in speaking her mind.

In fact, I even remember her comparing me to a friend I learned dance with – who was older and who I admired and who gave me many a ride to class on her squeaky scooter. The conversation dripping with puzzlement and surprise (on my teacher’s part), went something like this. “Now she (my friend) is so very beautiful and dances so well, and yet on stage, you outdazzle her.” (more surprise, more confusion, more trying to figure it out). It was the day after a show and I was probably all of thirteen, and very thankful no one else was around to hear this. For my friend was indeed a delicate, graceful beauty and I was just as puzzled by whatever it was that was puzzling my teacher.

But I knew there was a compliment tucked in there, and I was quite willing to dive in and get it. Even if I wasn’t quite sure what she meant.

And I thought of her comment last night and smiled. And although I can no longer imagine being on a big stage, I wondered again why I had this ‘stage presence’ that my dance teachers would repeatedly talk about (with or without surprise).

And suddenly I wondered if that was my letting go….  And if so, letting go must allow us to dazzle…

Maybe on stage, under all those lights, bolstered by beautiful jewellery and make-up and silk, I simply let go of what others thought or had to say. Maybe I was always waiting for my teacher to comment or compliment or correct me while in class. But right there on stage, I knew what I knew and I was sure of what I knew and the only thing mattered in that moment was the music and the movement and the moment. And even if hundreds of people watched, it didn’t matter. For in the rhythm of that moment, I believed in myself. I was a star. I “dazzled” as my teacher said.

And if indeed I truly did, it could only be due to an enormous letting go of all else… of what people thought, what they said, of the mistakes I could make, of the mistakes and missteps I probably made right there, of expectations, of hesitations, of pressures, of self-doubts…

For the rhythm of the moment knew only being in tune with the body; and living only in the movement and the moment and the music…  and that must be magic...

Life is a stage after all…

A while back, I listened to a radio show and heard the interviewee share a beautiful thought. Unfortunately, details of the show and person escape me, but the thought came back to me today, and I wanted to write it down so I wouldn’t forget.

He was a successful Broadway composer and musician and spoke about fear and panic. He talked about dealing with panic attacks and teaching himself to do things despite the panic. And the empowerment in knowing that he was able to do the things he did, despite the panic.  

His solution was simple. He said that even if you hear your heart pounding and you feel terrified before going on stage, you do go on stage. For the show must go on. And life is no different. “I have a pounding heart, but I can go on stage despite that pounding heart. And knowing that I can go on stage despite the pounding heart is my strength” (totally paraphrased).  

Just the words I needed to hear. For the past couple of months, I have been dealing with health uncertainties and that has made my world somewhat gray and fearful.  That has made me withdrawn, subdued and rather ‘meh’ and ‘blah’ (always so eloquent, right?). And when you add anxiety and fear to a physically tired and weak body, the combination is never a good one. I have tried to shake off the fear, but it seems to have a tight grip.

I know it is not going to help for me to be scared. I know it is not going to help for me to be withdrawn. I know I am impatient and want to simply shake it off. I know I can’t do that either.

So that must mean that I need to go on stage with it. That I continue to live my life with it, despite it. And knowing that I can live my life with it and despite it shall give me strength. That shall be my courage. Or so I hope.

Being seen as different, seeing ourselves as different, yet feeling the same…

The other day, I saw a facebook post about a TV character of Indian descent who dates only white men. I wondered why it deserved such a big news article (although I read it all). I wondered why it mattered. I still don’t understand why it should matter.  For I would like to believe that ethnicity or skin color is not the only part of your identity. And it is not. But it is something you need to carry with you.

The topic of skin color has popped up now and then in our home, especially when my daughter hangs out with friends who are mostly white. Not that she minds or they mind and she has even tried to teach them Bollywood songs and of course, to speak with an Indian accent. The other day I even warned a mom that her daughter was returning home with a well-rehearsed Indian accent.

And I try to see it from her point of view. These are friends she relates to whole and soul and yet is suddenly aware that there is something different about her. And I think she’s trying to figure that piece out. She has Indian friends too and sees a lot of Indians, but may be trying to figure out the place of skin color in the overall scope of things.

Having ventured into a non-homogenous culture only as an adult, I cannot necessarily relate to what may be ticking away in her little brain. I understand it is inevitable, even if I am saddened by the fact that this exists and will so for at least a few lifetimes.

I am really not trying to get into any deep discussion about discrimination and skin color of any kind. I’m simply trying to understand what being typecast into a certain ethnicity means for the day to day existence and interaction. And I’m trying to understand why I am still thinking about it, given that I don’t believe in it (or at least don’t want to). 

For there are times, I forget my ethnicity and feel that it just doesn’t matter (and it doesn’t or shouldn’t). But my accent, skin color and mannerisms come in the way with certain groups of people, and may get more attention than I would like. It really doesn’t bother me that much. For it is a part of who I am. But fact remains that it does exist and there’s no getting around it.  

Besides this phenomenon is global. In Central Africa, I was called ‘blanche’ (white). Yeah, you go figure… I think we try to understand where we stand with reference to others; or where others stand with reference to us. And I guess we are constantly trying to fit people into cubbyholes of kinds that we create in our mind. So the folks in Central Africa, didn’t have a cubbyhole for ‘brown’ and I was simply put into the one for ‘blanche’.

Or the confused looks I got at the Paris airport when I travelled from Africa to the US, spoke French (with an African accent), carried an Indian passport, my hair tied in hundreds of tiny African braids, wearing a University t-shirt. The woman checking my papers laughed and pointed out how I was a petite brown woman, with African hair and beads, French tongue, Indian papers and American destination and t-shirt. I hadn’t realized it till then. I felt so global. I loved it. For I want to believe that the world is shrinking. It truly is. Yet we have ways to go.

For in the end, we are the only ones who know who we truly are inside; and who we truly believe ourselves to be.

 
here's another link to an email I wrote from Cameroon that talks about similar stuff...
http://rootswrites.blogspot.com/2010/09/of-this-that-and-stereotypes.html
It's on a different blog - tried to archive here some emails that I wrote many years ago from Cameroon... this one is about stereotypes...
 

Beneath it all… Justin Bieber or not…

Gossiping begins pretty early, I suppose. Especially when it revolves around Justin Bieber. I overheard more than a few conversations between my daughter and her friends discussing, disapproving, disliking, and finally distancing themselves from Justin Bieber. So the other day, when I heard some rather strong words against the guy, as they discussed jail, drunk driving and such (their version of course), I said, “Oh... He’s just a kid. He made bad choices. There’s no need for such strong dislike…”

This was followed by some “ooohs and ohhhs”, a few whispers, “is she sticking up for him??”, more giggles and finally... “my mom’s in love with Justin Bieber” (!!!). Sigh….when you don’t have siblings, it’s only right that you pick on your mother (??). Moreover, this ‘fact’ has been repeated to friends – hers as well as mine. Good grief.

So let me go on record stating: I’m not a cougar. I have no plans on being one. And no Justin Bieber, I’m not in love with you. And now, I think I want to go throw up and then come back and continue with my thought and writing.

Hmm… Now that we have that matter settled, let me continue. I just want to believe that beneath it all, we’re all good. I want to believe that… and I need to believe that… and in my heart I know that it is true.

My ‘old-self’ would be like Justin Bieber in all his glory, while ‘my-self-in-sickness’ would be him arrested (or whatever happened. I refuse to do a fact check on the subject. The journalist in me is dying after all). And I really want to believe that there is good beneath the mess.  

I know sick people are told they are not their sickness. (And I’m not even the sickest person around. Time and again, I feel like I need to put in a disclaimer…To hear me write so much about illness, you would think I was about to die. I am not. But you know that. For those reading the blog are mostly people I know. Maybe the illness is providing the opportunity for me to reflect on things, or maybe my mind is just tad dramatic, or maybe this blog is my therapy. Or maybe I am scared that I may indeed become my illness and lose complete sight of the original person beneath (if that has not already happened. Sigh…)

It is hard. And when you’re having a bad day, it is hard to believe that beneath it all, things are good. And that I am good. So whether I need to go back into memory and find a time when I was not overwhelmed or scared by something, a time when everything seemed possible and even easy, or maybe when I handled difficult situations with poise and grace (yeah yeah…who said it was going to be easy?), or maybe a time when I remained centered and grounded when things around me shifted and seemed crazy…

I know I will find several instances. The question is…will I remember to look?

And Justin Bieber... I can't believe you found your way into my blog. Sigh...

Advice...

When you’re ill, you get a lot of advice. Good, meaningful advice. You get advice because people think you need it. And they are one hundred percent correct. Ironically though, I suspect that when we need advice the most, we are able to take it in the least. Or maybe this problem belongs to only the stubborn some like me.

Whether or not I have followed the advice, I have always listened carefully. And whether or not I have followed the advice, many wise words will stick with me forever.  And I am grateful for those words. And I am grateful to those who have taken the time and cared enough to share those words with me. Perhaps something inside me has changed. Perhaps I value advice more. Perhaps, I’m able to take it in better.

And perhaps I shall write another piece on our inability to take in advice. But for now, I want to share a sound piece of advice my friend, who is a cancer survivor, shared with me some years ago. It surprises me that I took it to heart and even tried to live it - despite the fact that it came early in my illness, when I mostly tried to deflect all advice.

My friend’s advice was to not wait to get healthy to start living my life; but to do everything I could whilst I got better. Sure there would be limitations to the things I would be able to do. But she advised me to not feel so crippled by illness that I should put my life and living on hold altogether. Waiting for a golden day in the future when all the pieces would suddenly come together and when I would feel as good as new seemed elusive and it would be foolish to remain miserable or limited till that golden day arrived. If ever it arrived even. (Remember she dealt with cancer? This was certainly not stuff I wanted to hear, but thankfully, I was unable to deflect it.)

So to the extent possible, I have tried to do that. Sometimes it is successful. Sometimes it is a bust. Sometimes it gets me into trouble (for doing more than I can). But I am grateful to my friend for sharing these wise words with me.

And illness or not, I think we need this advice no matter what. For very often, we put things on hold deciding to do them when the situation is better, or altered, or different. I’ll wear that dress when my tummy is flatter, or wait till my child is off to college to do that… are a few lines I have heard that have reminded me of my friend’s advice.

Like most good advice, you know it is good for you. And like most good advice, it is hard to follow.

And like most good advice, I hope I will remember it when I need it most – when I lack energy and enthusiasm. For the momentum of today is always the momentum of today and I hope I will always live it… even if it is only to the extent I can...